#reading you

Tipsy Fergus was a sweet torture. He was apparently very conscious of the approach of Sunday’s goodbyes and hadn’t left Roger’s side all evening, leading agitated conversations without ever letting his gaze stray from Roger for longer than a few minutes.

Somebody had handed Roger a guitar earlier in the evening, and Roger had played two of his own songs, then accompanied a short sing-along, but people had long since moved on to party games and quiet corners. The guitar’s elegant neck now rested against Roger’s thigh, his thumb barely brushing the low E string in regular intervals, creating an almost unnoticeable sound and a pleasant vibration matching the buzz in his chest.

It took Roger by surprise when Fergus’ long fingers wrapped around the guitar’s neck. Only then did he notice that the conversation Fergus had been involved in had died down, and Marlène, Kenny and Iona had wandered towards the kitchen to replenish their drinks.

Fergus lifted the guitar in what Roger was sure was a deliberately slow and calculated movement, his knuckles softly brushing Roger’s thigh in the process, his clear blue eyes fixed on Roger’s darker ones.

He stood, without a word, and grabbing Roger’s hand lead him quickly toward the bedroom where they’d left their coats, leaving the guitar on a couch in the living room.

„Where are we going?“ Roger asked, thinking to himself that it didn’t matter, that he would happily follow Fergus to the moon and back if he only asked.

Fergus tossed him his jacket in lieu of an answer and was already halfway out of the room, calling back: „Grab that bottle of wine on the dresser, will you?“ And Roger did as he was told, following Fergus into the chill of the Parisian night without a second thought.

It started on Paris’ cobblestones, on their endless and simultaneously brief, almost hasty journey home. They played into their own drunkenness, leaning on each other, a steadying hand on the other’s arm, a swaying bump to the other’s hip, a lingering hand holding onto cold fingers. They stopped to take turns drinking out of the snagged wine bottle, increasingly conscious of the fact that they were pressing their lips to the same small ring of glass, inching closer to each other with every stop, the bottle slowly emptying, their hearts impossibly filling.

Fergus stopped one last time on the corner of his street, setting down the empty bottle next to a trash can and leaning against the wall of the closed restaurant, the movement reminding Roger of Mrs Graham’s cat, just as fluid, just as perfectly elegant and lazy. In awe, he let Fergus tug him closer, wondering for a split second whether he’d maybe had too much wine.

Fergus’ hand wandered up Roger’s arm, finding purchase on the back of his neck, tangling in the ends of the unruly brown waves. With their foreheads connected they said nothing for a short while, just breathing the same air and Roger’s eyes slipped closed, his whole body focused on the sensation of Fergus’ fingers in his hair.

Fergus’ voice was lower, rougher than usual when he finally spoke, his grip on Roger tightening with his words, and shooting straight to Roger’s core.

„Fuck, j’ai envie de toi... Let’s go home, okay?“

After that, it was an unending string of snap-shots in Roger’s mind, each one a perfectly clear image, only their connection somehow lost in the intensity of sensation, each one a memory he would treasure like his own soul.

Fergus’ lips on his own, hungry, tasting like wine and desire. Roger’s trembling fingers on Fergus’ shirt buttons. The first brush of groin against groin, the added friction of their jeans, the hunger for more. The feel of Fergus’ sheets on his back. The miles and miles of Fergus’ pale, exposed skin, and how soft and smooth it felt under Roger’s hands and mouth. The desperate little sounds dropping from Fergus’ lips, each one spurring Roger on beyond anything he’d known of himself. The delicious, foreign slide of their cocks against each other, the almost unbearable thrill of anticipation. The sheer unbelievable satisfaction in the end, the rush of giddy power in knowing he hadn’t just received, but also given. The stark contrast of their naked skin pressed together – Roger; dark, hairy, broad and Fergus; ivory, smooth, lean.

They lay awake until the early morning announced itself through the small skylight, never losing their connection, not of their bodies, not of their minds. Roger could physically feel the pull of morning’s approach, and he knew Fergus felt it too, both of them doing their best to resist it, to carve a few stolen moments for themselves from the unforgiving tree of time.

It was only when the first sun hit their entangled legs that they let themselves drift off into sleep, escaping reality and finding refuge in their shared dreams of the passing night.

Only one more day.

Epilogue – More Letters

I told my great-uncle today. I think it might take him some time to wrap his head around it, but he said he’d already suspected something.

Marlène had her pictures developed. There’s one of us from the party, you know, at Isabelle’s. You’re playing the guitar and I’m just looking at you. I can’t believe it’s already been two months.

Next week, I get to play at the Hootananny in Inverness. It’s on a Thursday, so no big deal, but I think there’ll still be a few guests. I wrote a song about you... Maybe I’ll play it.

Maman wants to send you some of the cheese you liked so much. I told her it’s a bad idea, you should just come visit again so she can feed you. I listened to the song. It’s perfect.

I miss you.